


what not to do in the showers at the gym

by AgeandEnvy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boners, Fluff, Gym, Happy Ending, M/M, Nudity, Public Nudity, Swimming, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, almost, better be safe, do i need to tag boners?, happy ending!, sort of resolved on both counts actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeandEnvy/pseuds/AgeandEnvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire’s plan for the morning was simple, assuming he wasn't too hungover: get up, throw on the cleanest t-shirt he could find, and head to the gym. </p>
<p>Enjolras' plan is similar.</p>
<p>They interconnect. Awkwardly.</p>
<p>Or, Enjolras looks good in red (and nothing), Grantaire gets a boner, and then they have coffee. That's it, that's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what not to do in the showers at the gym

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what happens when you have five GCSE exams this week and you really should be revising, but you also have no internet, so instead of reading fanfiction, because you can't, you write it. Apparently. Oops.
> 
> Really fluffy and horrible and stupid, so I'm sorry, but I hope you like it! It may even go some way to offsetting the angst of last time.
> 
> Sorry for the simply TERRIBLE title, I didn't have any internet so my precious [beta](http://hufflelockwho.tumblr.com/) couldn't read it and give me a hand, and it all kind of spiralled from there.

 

 

Grantaire’s plan for the morning was simple, assuming he wasn't too hungover: get up, throw on the cleanest t-shirt he could find, and head to the gym. 

Meet up with Bahorel and Jehan. Spar with Bahorel, maybe watch Jehan's class for a bit. 

He'd shower at the gym and grab something to eat with the others after. 

The gym most of the Amis used was huge; a massive leisure multiplex that housed an Olympic-sized swimming pool with proper diving board, a huge traditional maze of rowing machines and treadmills, a room with a full-sized boxing ring and plenty of space for warm ups and sparring, and lots of studios, used for everything from ballet practice to Kung foo, capoeira and yoga classes, a spa complex with treatment rooms, steam rooms, saunas and jacuzzis, as well as two separate cafés and all the required changing rooms and showers. 

It suited their needs perfectly; they all liked to do different things, but they also liked to, if not do them with their friends, then at least meet up with their friends after for coffee and protein shakes. 

 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  

The minute Grantaire saw him, he froze, which isn’t a good thing to do when you’re on a moving treadmill.

The gym was on one of the upper floors, and was glass along one side, which just so happened to face out over the huge indoor pool. 

Grantaire had chosen one of the machines closest to the glass, so he’d have something to watch; he hated exercising alone, it was so boring; o ne of the main reasons he started boxing was that it kept his mind busy as well as his body, and anything that distracted Grantaire’s mind for any amount of time was fine with him. This was a bit too distracting, though. 

Theoretically, he knew Enjolras used the same gym as him; only theoretically because although Joly and Courfeyrac both regularly went with him and took great pleasure in relating their escapades to the rest of them over drinks, Grantaire had never, not once, seen Enjolras there, in all the years he’d been going. 

(Privately, he was convinced that, being a god incarnate, Enjolras didn’t have to wok to maintain that body, it was just natural; same as how he was fairly sure that the blonde rolled out of bed with his hair like that. It took a great deal of imagination to see Enjolras primping in front of a mirror, and when it came to Enjolras in Grantaire’s imagination there were far better things he could be doing than his hair.)

Realistically, Grantaire knew that the only reason he never saw Enjolras at the gym was because they kept vastly different schedules – Grantaire was lucky if he was up before twelve, and Enjolras was the type to go at 6am before his first 8am class.

Anyway, Grantaire has just been sent sprawling backwards off a treadmill. He picks himself up, swearing, his eyes unconsciously seeking out the cause of his distraction. It, or rather he, is still there, damn him. Smack bang in the middle of Grantaire’s line of sight, is the diving board, high above the large pool. And teetering on the end of it, lean arms stretched up above and obscenely perfect torso, is Enjolras. 

Grantaire swears his heart stops for a second as Enjolras bounces, once, twice; just enough time for Grantaire to take in the bright red swimming trunks (typical), lack of goggles (he’s a little bit disappointed, no one looks good in swimming goggles, and it would be nice to have some reassurance that Enjolras isn’t _really_ a god), smooth, toned expanse of skin (at this distance, hairless, but perhaps he’s just too blonde for it to show? What Grantaire wouldn’t give to find out up close), and dripping, slicked-back hair which is starting to curl around his ears (somehow _so cute_ , and yet _so hot_ at the same time).   

Then Enjolras is tipping forward, body rigidly straight as he completes possibly the most graceful dive Grantaire’s ever seen, barely causing the water to ripple as he breaks the surface and sinks. 

He’s down there for so long, in fact, that R worries for a second, but then he’s popping up like a cork in a bottle (one of R’s favourite analogies) to join Courfeyrac, who’s cheering him on from the side. 

‘Grantaire?’ It’s Jehan, tapping on his shoulder, and R dimly registers that it’s not the first time Jehan’s spoken, distracted as he was.

‘Yeah, sorry, what?’ 

‘I just wanted to let you know that I was done, and that I’d see you downstairs, okay?’ 

The poet looks mildly concerned. Grantaire worries for a second whether Jehan saw his embarrassing fall, and is just starting to concoct an excuse when the other boy shrugs and squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder, whistling as he saunters towards the showers. 

Grantaire stays there for a moment longer, just watching Enjolras and Courfeyrac splashing around below. Enjolras is surprisingly playful; Grantaire had figured he’d be a strictly-lengths type swimmer, but he and Courf' are flicking water at each other and pushing each other under like kids. It’s sweet, and R can feel something blooming in his chest. The feeling isn’t totally unpleasant, but then he realises he’s being totally creepy and hurriedly turns away.

He heads off to find Bahorel, in the hope that he’s still got some energy left for sparring - a couple of strong knocks to the head are just what he needs right now to take his mind of a certain pair of red swimming trunks. 

(Who decided that swimming should be a public activity, anyway? The way the wet cloth clung to - no. Never.)

  

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

Granatire’s never had a problem with nudity, his own or others - for god’s sake, he used to live with _Bahorel,_ to whom the notion of ‘privacy’ was just an urban myth - so when he comes out of the showers he comfortably drops his pile of clothes onto the bench in the open-plan changing rooms and begins to dry off. 

There are a couple of guys already in there, in their own separate corners. Bahorel would be done soon, and in the meantime he’d wait with Jehan, maybe grab something to eat if he had enough cash. 

He’s pondering the (limited) menu choices in the cafe while he rubs a towel across his unruly curls in a vain attempt to dry them, distracted, when he sees a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and his breath catches.

He’d hoped to be alerted by Courfeyrac’s braying laugh before it came to this, but no such luck; there he is, his Apollo, in the flesh. 

Lots of flesh. Too much flesh. All the flesh, in fact; it would seem Enjolras has as little issue with nudity as Grantaire, God help him. 

(Jesus Christ _._ Enjolras was a fucking Adonis, he’d always known it. But not to _this extent._ He was lithe and perfect, tall and sleek, all hard planes of muscle, taught under smooth, pale flesh with a smattering of blonde hair. His stomach was a washboard, his chest defined. His thighs were strong and his calves tight. The man had attractive _calves_ for godssake.)

So R does what every sober, calm, mature, steady-minded adult in his situation would do: he panics.

He ducks into a cubicle swiftly, breath coming short all of a sudden. Screwing his eyes shut, he pushes his palm against his cock, which is embarrassingly hard beneath his jeans, simultaneously trying to relieve the pressure and will it to go down. 

He _refuses_ to leave the showers with a hard on like some fourteen year old. 

He realises with a groan that he’s left his shoes and bag on the bench outside, meaning he’ll either have to wait for Enjolras to leave, with the possibility that he saw him, and all the uncomfortable explanation that would entail, or go out there now, half-dressed and half-hard, and face him, with the possibility that Enjolras didn’t notice anything. 

He’s an idiot and a masochist, but he’s never been a coward, so he steels himself and unlocks the door. 

Thankfully, by now, Enjolras has his jeans on, although little else. Grantaire makes it to the bench, and his his t-shirt in hand by the time Enjolras looks up, his mouth curving into a smile.   
  
‘Oh, hey Grantaire, I didn’t see you. Good workout?’  
  
(Is he imaging the way Enjolras’ eyes flit across his chest appreciatively, or –?)  
  
‘Oh, umm, yeah, it was great.’ R’s halting reply is muffled by the shirt he’s forcing over his head, causing his hair to become even more of a slightly static birds nest. ‘Yours?’

‘Wonderful, thanks.’   
  
(He must have been imagining it. He must’ve. Surely.)

‘Cool.’

Grantaire slings his bag across his shoulder and stands up, his body now much more in line with his head, although he remains thankful for the looseness of his jeans.  
  
‘Wait, um, Grantaire?’ Enjolras is uncharacteristically hesitant; if Grantaire didn’t know better he would say nervous.

Enjolras is _blushing_ when he turns back around, his elegant cheekbones dusted with a faint rose, and R’s one thought is _how can he be so gorgeous?_  

‘I was wondering, um, if you wanted to, maybe, whether you’d like to –pleasewouldyougetcoffeewithmesometime?’

He says the last words in such a rush that Grantaire has to take a moment deciphering them, and then another to make sure he sin’t dreaming, because no, this can’t be happening, not now, not in the _showers at the gym,_ not Enjolras – who is properly blushing, and Grantaire can’t help but notice how it spreads from his cheeks down his neck onto his chest, and how _totally fucking adorable_ that is, and –

He still hasn’t answered him, he realises, too caught up in his internal monologue. 

‘Yes, um, yeah, I’d, ah, really, really like that.’ He’s biting his lip, hard to keep the grin he can feel from blossoming onto his face, because he is _so happy right now_ he can barely contain it. He fails.  
  
It’s times like this R wishes his life were a musical, because boy, if ever there was something to sing about, it would be this.

He doesn’t feel too bad about smiling like a demented serial killer, because Enjolras looks like his face is splitting with joy too.   
  
‘Awesome. Cool. Now?’  
  
He wants to cry, to sing, to fucking leap with joy. He settles for – ‘Yeah, sure. Might want to put a shirt on first though.’  
  
Enjolras blushes even more, if that were possible, and looks down at himself as if he’s only just remembered that he’s half naked.  
  
‘Oh, ah, yeah. Thanks.'  
  
He’s so bashful Grantaire just wants to kiss him all over and cuddle him to death, but to be fair, he wants to that a lot of the time anyway. 

He curses himself as Enjolras pulls on a t-shirt. It feels like the sun has gone in, without the radiance of his bared skin.

‘Coffee, then?’ Grantaire asks, holding the door open for him.   
  
Enjolras laughs, and takes his hand, and Grantaire smiles, and he tries not to, but he _hopes._

  

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 

A year and eight months later, around 7 am on a Tuesday morning, Grantaire is woken by Enjolras coming back from the gym. 

He’s been swimming, like always, and his hair is still wet from the shower. 

Grinning sleepily, R pushes Enjolras’ t-shirt further up his chest, licks across his abs, heading south, tasting the faint chlorine residue that remains on his lovers’ skin. 

And as Enjolras concedes that yes, maybe he can be late for work, _just this once,_ Grantaire marvels at how far they’ve come. 

Not for long though. Enjolras never was a patient man.

 

 

 

_Fin._  

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That was terrible, I'm sorry.
> 
> I just really love the idea of Enjolras being really hopeless and awkward and being totally oblivious to R's feelings, and trying to ask him out and being all blushy and cute.
> 
> (and he sees R at the showers of the gym and he's naked and TATTOOS and so Enjolras panics and runs away but then Courf's like MAN UP (except in a less sexist way, obvs) and so he goes back in, all composed, Grantaire's there, and talking to him, and TATTOOS, and he had a speech prepared and everything but that goes right out the window but then he just about manages it and he's SO HAPPY)
> 
> I'd love to know what you think! (but please be kind, I'm fragile)
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://hollow-laughter-in-marble-halls.tumblr.com/) and we can chat about Aaron Tveit and other more-French revolutionaries.


End file.
